


Holes

by Neroli66



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-30
Updated: 2006-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-15 11:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16932648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neroli66/pseuds/Neroli66
Summary: Sammy has been marking Dean as his since the day he was born. First posted to LJ in 2006





	Holes

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Dean's PoV, written as a post-Croatan coda but doesn't really contain spoilers for any episodes. Beta'd by the lovely [](https://arabella-hope.livejournal.com/profile)[**arabella_hope**](https://arabella-hope.livejournal.com/) , also written for the lovely [](https://arabella-hope.livejournal.com/profile)[**arabella_hope**](https://arabella-hope.livejournal.com/) and [](https://kueble.livejournal.com/profile)[](https://kueble.livejournal.com/)**kueble**. Just because they rock and I love them.

  
Sammy has been marking Dean as his since the day he was born.

Little things, things no one else would think of as markings. Even Mom and Dad had never thought twice about the fact that Sammy only peed while having his diaper changed when it was Dean doing it, only burbled up that little bit of formula when Mary let Dean burp him.

And after she was gone it was _always_ Dean changing and burping him. Sammy fussed too much whenever John tried.

Then came the twelve years Dean spent with Sammy snot on his shirt sleeves and drool on his jeans from where Sammy would lay his head in Dean's lap while he napped on the couch. Dean's first cast -- from when he broke his leg falling out of a tree in Ohio -- had been covered in Sammy's seven year old scrawl before they even got back to the motel room.

Not even his school teacher had been able to find a clear spot to add her name. There had only been room for Sammy.

As they got older and Sam started training with Dad and Dean, there had been Sammy's bloodstains replacing the snot and drool. Bruises marking Dean's skin from when Sam forgot to pull back in time. Nicks and cuts crisscrossing Dean's flesh from Sam's knives, the ones Sam never cut Dad with.

Dean still remembered the first time that Sammy had a wet dream; he'd gone to pull the sheets off Sam's bed, not knowing -- not understanding -- where the wetness had come from until he'd lifted his damp hand up and sniffed the musky scent of his brother's come for the first time.

He'd tried to wash it off, but even now he could still smell _Sam_ on his hands.

That two month period when John left them in North Platte -- alone -- so Sam could finish the school year. His father had teased Dean mercilessly about the hippy chick he must have hooked up with while he was gone. Dean never told him that the hearts and flowers drawn on his old pair of jeans had been from Sammy.

John wouldn't have understood, not the reason why Sammy had done it or the reason why Dean had let him. Dad most certainly would _not_ have understood why Sam pinned Dean down the day before his return and added one last drawing to the mosaic; a pair of lips just under the zipper of the jeans. To this day the scent of Sharpies made Dean instantly hard.

It had been the first time Dean hadn't tried to hide his hard-on from Sammy. It had also been the last time he needed to before Sammy left.

They'd spent the summer hunting with Dad, no time alone. Dean had whiled away that time looking for a sign from Sam, something, anything. Because he could flirt and pursue anyone else; but with Sam, he knew he could not be the one to make the first move.

It wasn't that Dean didn't know if he wanted this -- thing -- between them, it wasn't even that he didn't know _Sam_ wanted it. Dean just needed to be sure that Sam _accepted_ that he wanted it.

As selfish as it was, he needed Sam to be the one to say, _yes, I want this_.

But then Sammy had started to get moody and tense. Dean hadn't known why until the night Sam told John he had been accepted at Stanford.

He remembered the pleading way that Sammy had looked at him; he still wasn't sure if Sam had been begging him to back him up or begging him to go with him. Not that it mattered, he'd been to hurt that Sam was leaving them -- leaving _him_ \-- for this other life.

Normal. Safe. That was what Sam told them he wanted. Dean knew that of all the things he could give Sam, none of it had anything to do with those two words. So he'd let Sam go, he thought that he'd heard his answer and it was _no, I don't want this_.

Even when he got Sam back, it wasn't like it had been.

For one thing, Sam hadn't come back for _him_. Not really, he'd come back to find Dad so that they could kill the Demon that had destroyed his _safe_ , _normal_ life back at Stanford with Jess.

Still, there had been little things, little ways, that reminded Dean of how it had been.

The way Sam would lean on him when he was hurt, the bloodstains Dean knew were not his own that he'd find on his clothes. One day Sam had even leaned over and wiped his runny nose on Dean's shoulder after a fruitless search for the Kleenex that Dean _knew_ were in the Impala's glove box.

And there were these jeans; Sam hadn't made two of the holes, but he _had_ drawn Dean's attention to them.

He still wasn't sure what the one on the knee was from, he just remembered Sam poking a finger through the hole one day and joking that if Dean wasn't careful his pants were going to disintegrate right off him.

The one on his left was from his nervous habit of constantly grabbing that pocket to make sure he had the Impala's keys on him. But he'd never noticed it till the time Sam had come back from the restroom in Buffalo and found Dean flirting with the waitress.

Instead of sitting across from Dean like he usually did, Sam had slid in next to him. One long, callused finger had slipped into the hole in his jeans and Sam had whispered -- soft and husky -- that a few inches higher and Dean would be wearing easy access pants.

Dean had been so hard and stiff, he'd barely been able to finish his burger. Thankfully Sam had helped out with the fries. Of course, that might have been Sam's plan all along.

Ah, but the one on his right thigh, that one was all Sammy. Not that Dean's jeans hadn't been old and worn long before Sam's return, but it was the movement of Sam's palm rubbing repeatedly over the soft cotton that had been the final straw for that patch.

It started innocently enough, with Dean shifting restlessly on the Impala's leather seat trying to find a position that eased his cramped leg muscles. Just another long drive across America's heartland.

Only this time, Sam was seated next to him and noticed Dean's discomfort. It's wasn't that Dean had a bum leg; it had just been banged up a couple of times and when the weather was chilly or he'd been driving for a long time, it tended to act up a little. It really wasn't a big deal.

But Sam had reached over and wrapped his freakishly large -- and warm -- hand around Dean's thigh and started to massage the tension away. It had felt so good -- the heat and the firm, strong touch -- that Dean hadn't pushed the hand away. Sam's fingers curled around the inside of Dean's leg felt a little like it had once been.

A little like maybe the answer had been _yes_ all along but Dean hadn't known how to hear it.

It had taken months of endless drives -- months of wordless offerings of comfort -- before the frayed, white patch had been exposed. Dean had noticed it first. In truth, he'd been waiting for it, searching for that subtle marking from Sam.

Dean sat on the bed idly toying with the worn out edges as he watched Sam sleep. He hadn't undressed when Sam left for the bar, hurt and pissed that Dean had kept Dad's secret for so long. Hadn't even undressed after Sam returned, drunk and still pissed.

He'd simply watched Sam flop on the bed without a word and fall asleep -- pass out really -- like Dean himself had so many times.

Dean had plenty of time to think while Sam was off drowning his troubles; and how strange was that? Sam using Dean's coping device. He hoped it had brought Sam more peace than it ever had him, but he doubted it.

What peace was there to be had? Because while Sam had been marking Dean, the Demon had been marking Sam.

And Dean was starting to realize he'd never marked Sam back, not once. Even Sam's current cast was still a pristine white. There had been no deliberate cuts or bruises during training, no Sharpies taken to faded blue jeans, no runny noses wiped off on _Sam's_ shirt.

In fact, Dean had been very careful never to leave _anything_ of himself on Sam. He'd always thought of it as protecting Sam; not wanting to hurt him, not wanting to push him, not wanting to take away Sam's choice.

Now, he wasn't so sure he'd done things the right way. Maybe Sam had left because he thought Dean didn't _want_ him. Maybe Sam had needed Dean to make the first move as much as he had needed Sam to. Maybe Sam had been trying to show Dean how to protect him all these years.

Maybe what he had to offer Sam was the only thing that _could_ keep Sam safe.

Quietly, Dean stood and walked over to where Sam had tossed his duffel bag earlier. He knew that Sam had a Sharpie in there somewhere.  



End file.
